


Blood In The Cut

by Pylet (Scrufflernutter)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood Kink, F/F, Gunplay, Lesbians Erotically Shoot Guns™, Masochism, Petplay, Sadism, blood tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:43:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrufflernutter/pseuds/Pylet
Summary: Angela likes to help. She likes to heal. She does her best to keep her team- her friends and family, at the best they can be. Somewhere along the lines, she found herself wanting to help more and more, and it became an eroticism. She didn't like to admit it. Angela is the doctor of the reformed Overwatch Strike Team, but she has  a quirk none of them discuss, but all of them enjoy.





	Blood In The Cut

**Author's Note:**

> Kill me I fell into the healslut trend i hate it and how ive seen it portrayed so i did it tastefully, here's this i guess, blease no bully this is really self indulgent and i wish angela was me 
> 
> @widowmaker please stab me several times and face fuck my while you shoot guns!!!!!!!

It was a symptom. That's what she told herself at first. It all started out as her kindhearted nature and willingness to help those she loved if any way she could. Extra medical attention, bringing coffee she knew someone liked, remembering interests and hobbies and giving gifts appropriate to them. Angela was loved by her team. To the gentle woman, she had an inherent tenderness and caring instinct about her that was projected ten fold onto anyone. Save those foul individuals in the world - but even then, a quiet part of her believed for everyone there was a forgiveness. 

And she held a special love to those she worked with. It was hard not to develop a close bond with the very people who fought beside you, who experienced every life threatening situation imaginable with. For most, they became friends for life. But somewhere along the line, where the friendship had reached it's peak, Angela kept wanting a step further. Craving it, an itch only scratched by the admitted motherly feeling she long ago stopped pretending wasn't there. Somewhere along the line bringing coffee had turned to being on her knees in someones private quarters while they drank it. Somewhere, extra medical attention turned into personal massages turned into three fingers deep and a collar tight to her throat, begging for more. 

What a mess, really. 

Angela called it a symptom. Tried to rationalize her actions to herself. It was the positive reinforcement of doing kind things. Positive reinforcement from a kiss on the cheek and cheery thanks, that steadily turned to the slightest of arousal, that only grew stronger and stronger. It developed into a special type of submissiveness and a fetish of subservience. Something she tried to tell herself was never there and suddenly showed up over night. It humiliated her to no end, saying it out loud, that it was always there. And only now was she finally comfortable enough to let it play.

The sky outside the newest of Overwatch Headquarters was grey. The air was hot and sticky, the lightest drizzle that enveloped the world in a hazy glow. Tall, evergreen pines enveloped the complex, obscuring it from prying eyes. Hidden deep in the wilderness, funded only by the agency and a handful of other ally black op groups, Overwatch was able to rebuild to a state of the art facility. This time for private use. With this, there was a price, however. The team was often isolated from the world when away from their missions. Certainly there was TV, internet, all sorts of entertainment. But often, the only human interaction they got was with each other. Private quarters were placed onsite - often shared between two of the team to save space. Angela was in fact the only member who didn't bunk with anyone, though this was due to her room being about half the size of other housing units.

She sat on a cushioned spot, built into the window to act as a lazy hammock, her legs curled under her and a steaming coffee sitting on the sill. A handful of small plants crawled their vines and stems off the edge, Angela lost in thought as she stared out into the dreary afternoon. Not a single light was on, her room cast into messy blue light. She read a handful of pages from a nearby book before setting it down to gaze outside occasionally before picking it up again only to read a handful more. There was a light buzz of her phone that brought her back to the now, it's soft glow catching her eye as she lazily reached for it, stretching out and groaning as she reclined in the couch-like nook.

All it said was "Are you busy?"

There was a moments hesitation as to what that could entail, but it was hardly a stretch of the imagination. Angela's nails clicked against the screen. 

"I've finished in the lab for the day." was the safest answer she could muster. Angela was very busy normally,but today was an exception. Much of her work was time gated, waiting on supplies to be flown in and paperwork from the UN to be sent back. She paused. Her breath was already growing heavy, as if holding it in a titillated wait. Her knees pressed together as she shifted in her spot, not entirely away of the passive squirming and need to move since she read the message. 

"What can I do for you?" followed shortly after her first message. It was a kind of silent code between her and the rest of her team. No one ever acknowledged it. No one ever spoke or mentioned it to others. Often few even did the same in private with Angela unless they were looking for a 'favor'. But everyone had experienced the doctors eagerness and generosity at least once. It was the type of code that told them she was free of distractions or anything too important. A subtle grin began to play at her, teeth lightly digging into her lower lip. 

The kind of code that told them she was more than eager to be used. 

She inhaled deeply, a hand running down her stomach, palm grinding into her toned form and tantalizingly close between her legs before sliding off to a bare thigh. Legs curled and her toes stretched as she waited, letting out a long breath and hips rocking ever so gently as that erotic tension already began to build up inside of her. Slowly, Angela rolled out of her spot, bare feet padding across the wooden panels of the widowed perch and down the two stairs before meeting soft carpeted floor. The woman lazily searched the slightly messy pile of clothes strewn across the floor, grabbing at a pair of slim jeans. Pulling them up, Angela left them unbuttoned as arms crossed at her waist, groping at the hem of her sweater, beginning to pull it off. But she didn't. Instead fingers simply flitted back, the slow zip of her jeans seeming louder than normal in the quiet room. 

Her phone buzzed.

Angela grabbed it, slipping on a pair of casual flats, mind already expecting to see merely a time and a place.

Amélie's name lit up on her homescreen.

"Come to the firing range. I have champagne. And leave your clothes at the door."

"Of course, my sweet. I'll be right over." she sent quickly, a small grin that curled with her lips as her teeth digging into the lower out of sheer anticipation. Always too the point, Amélie...

Angela was already well out the door, though in no particular rush there did seem to be a bit of a spring in her step. Her steps were long and drawn out, that lazy saunter in her stride reminiscent of walking to that first cup of coffee. Her eyes half lidded, but slowly filling with interest as the doctor shook from her laze of the afternoon.

Her steps clicked against the tile floor of the empty hallways, each reverberating down the complex. Every third light was on, and even then they had were dimmed. The soft glow from the dreary outdoors leaked through a line of windows, Angela's shadow playing at the wall as she wandered through the maze of corridors that were oh so familiar. A turn. A long hallway. A biometric scanner and a few more turns. An ocular security clearance. 

Slowly the more 'lobby' styled bits of the headquarters faded to obvious high security personnel only. Though every member of Overwatch did have security and they were often the only ones there, it was standard practice should anything...unsavory occur. Angela stood at the end of the hallway, a heavy blast door covering it, and a sign that hung 'Firing Range' next to it. She looked behind her. And then up at the security camera glaring down at her. Angela inhaled long and slow, calming herself as she fluttered her eyes closed but unable to do much about the way her heart pounded in her chest. Neatly, she slipped her flats off, lining them against the wall. Then came the pants, thumbs curling underneath the hem and wriggling down to the knees, her lusciously thick and soft thighs exposed to the cool headquarters air, stepping out of the fabric. She curled her toes several times on the hard, cold tile as she neatly folded her pants, setting them next to her shoes. Another pause. This time she couldn't glance up at the camera. Fingers pushed her sweater up slightly as they searched for the hem of her panties, soft black material, simple but so lewd on her delicate and plump form the way they clung to her ass tightly, pinched slightly between the legs and rose low in the center, the ever slightest of stubble on her pubic area shown. And even then it looked like blonde glitter in any light. 

Fingers curled once more as she pulled them down, slowly. Erotically. More so for her own enjoyment than the cameras - but that added its own share of excitement as well. She bent at the hips, tingling at the way the 'tight' cloth hugged at her generous form the crotch slightly stained from her earlier antics as well as previous duties before. Angela shivered, stepping out of the fabric and folding them neatly, setting them a top her pants and the her phone with the screen down a top those. It was a common sign should she have to do just this and leave clothing else where. The firing range would be rather empty until she left.

Her dainty, pale knuckles rapped at the door twice before it slowly creaked open. Gunsmoke hinted in the air like perfume, a dangerous eroticism oh so befitting of the sniper. And there the temptress stood waiting, heavy rifle firm to her shoulder bead drawn down the range, and tight to her body an outfit worn during her Talon days - but kept for certain aesthetics. Shining leather and latex worked well with her. 

The door closed behind her, and Angela's hands wrung absently at the based of her sweater, not bothering pull it down to hide anything. No, she knew why she was here and there was no shame in it. Or there was, and she was far...far too desensitized to such embarrassment. Her footsteps were quiet. Tender but sure, as the softest - if not a tad sleepy - smile hung to her face. She said nothing, instead approaching to the right side of Amélie, waiting quietly for the acknowledgement she so intensely craved, of the validation so earnestly desired. Of the games she knew Amélie wanted to play - and wanted to win. 

The rapport of a gunshot sounded, Angela flinching only slightly at the unexpectedness of it rather than the sound. Absently she gazed down the range though could not see much given the distance. As the deafening ring of the gun faded out of the room, she piped up only between the shots. 

"Good afternoon Amélie. I hope the day hasn't been too hard on you." she greeted politely. Intimately. The closeness and fondness of a long time friend rather than what lewd reasons she stood before the other.

A bullet casing chimed like a bell as it hit bounced against the bleak tile. Grey concrete scratched by boots, bullets, and heavy used, off tone pastel blue walls and pillars seperating firing places. Oppressively bright flood lights that illuminated only the ends of the range, rows of targets hung up. The entire room felt like a place out of time. Or perhaps that was simply the anticipation of what was too come. The woman before her was quiet. Brooding. On a metal stand brought in and placed behind her was a bucket of ice, opened bottle and two glasses set out. One empty, the other half so of a bubbling white champagne. Angela helped herself to a glass, pouring the drink luxuriously as she leaned against the wall, narrow walkway of the range putting barely a full stride between the two women. 

Amélie said nothing. Made no sound. Though with the sheer silence of the room, the patient doctor could swear she almost heard her breath. Almost. It always worried Angela, the things Talon had done to Amélie. Her heartrate was barely thirty beats a minute. 

Another shot drew Angela from the thought, though this time not flinching at the sound. She took a long, drawn out sip of her drink, shifting the weight of her feet. A long quiet, before the shooter exhaled a slow breath, stance relaxing and gun lowering slightly. 

"Ziegler." she said simply. Her gun popped open, magazine springing out as she set her weapon a top the table, turning to regard her guest. "I've been through better days. But certainly have had worse." Amélie mused. And as casually as the greeting, she stepped forward, Angela suddenly finding herself squeezed between wall and woman. Her face was close, looming over the doctor almost, a leg between her thighs that was firm enough to make her feel the need to rise up on the balls of her feet. Amélie held her eye, that bored expression glimmering with the most subtle interest. Angela's gaze never fautered, though her mouth lolled slightly, soft panting at the intimacy at the growing tension. Amélie reached for her own glass, holding it up between the two of them then raising it slightly more in a silent cheers. Soft lips parted, tongue pressing briefly against them as they wrapped about the glasses edge, Amélie downing the last of her drink before pulling it away slowly. Her lips tugged at the glass slightly, the faintest shade of lipstick clinging to its brim as she absently swirled the empty drink.

"I'd encourage you drink what you'd like, now. I have a single magazine left." she coo'd. Angela's brow furrowed at the implications, giving a confused look. The thigh between her own pressured more firmly so was less of an answer and more so encouragement. It pushed a quiet squeak from the woman, and she near lost her footing which only made her lean heavier against Amélie. She dared not wait to gather her compsure, instead hastily drinking till only the dregs and then some remained. As soon as her glass was set down, Amélie was already on top of her. 

She wanted to taste the champagne still on her toys lips, wanted to feel the breath catch in her throat. The sniper pressed closer, hand groping at Angela's shoulder those agile fingers trailing sharp nails across to her neck, up her throat so tantilizaing. They dragged light scratches of what she could do teasingly up to the underside of her chin and forced the smaller woman to look up. Amélie would never hunch over for such things. No, Angela was here to obey and to beg. And how perfectly she did so. 

Her groans came easily in response, and the slightest roll of her hips against Amélie's thigh in response. She craved the attention, wanted the pleasure, wanted to please. How quickly the woman began to let herself come unraveled as their lips met, Amélie basking in the luxury of her power. Each desperate craving was met with a methodical teasing, slow and oh so intoxicating. Her lips tugged at Angela's every time she pulled away leaving the woman to chase after more, but unable to. Amélie's hand slithered down, closing around her throat, pinning Angela firmly against the wall where she squirmed, craning for more. A sufficating tightness pulled at her with every strained kiss and relaxed in between, the doctor quickly losing her breath, heavy panting her chest heaving from the effort. One leg rose slightly, Angela leaning more so onto her lovers thigh and where she tried to reach, tried to touch, it earned her a tighter hand around her throat, and a wrist pinned to the wall in similar fashion. 

Amélie broke their kiss. Though she continued to dance about the other. Gentle suckling, soft kisses, trailing about her jawline and side of her neck. She paused.

"You touch, when I say you do." the woman told in the voice a commander would say when punishing their solider. Angela's voice was raspy as she struggled for breath. Though she could breath, it was only through tremendous effort and between the quiet groans and gasps of Amélie's expert touch. 

"Of course, Amélie." she answered, words stuttered and choked. 

And like that, Angela all but collapsed. Amélie's onslaught was at a halt. The hand at her throat no longer demanding submission, the thigh between her legs gone and left yearning for more. She didn't look nearly as disheveled as she felt, Angela trying to catch her breath as she wobbled to a straighted posture. A soft smile replaced the needy haze as an arm snaked around her waist, the other pulling her close. She was practically walked to the firing spot, and her smile grew wider as that hand slide up the small of her back, past shoulders and so tenderly across her neck. Amélie's fingers combed through her hair and parted around her ponytail before sinking into their grip. 

"Hold still for me. My legs have been shakey today."

A quick flick of her wrist had Angela's head tilted sharply back, and a strong tug began to pull her lower.

"Down." Amélie ordered, words cold and uninterested. 

It stung. There was no love in the way Angela was pulled down, it was a cruel, simplistic action. It hurt, and so she'd obey. She dropped to her knees harshly from the surprise, barely registering beyond the sudden pain before her groans were muffled. The sniper's leg swung up and over the woman's shoulder, one flush against her front and the other pinned tightly to Angela's side. She straightened up, using the poor woman like a stand to lean against, silencing the brief protest there was with thighs firmly wrapped about the doctors head. 

Angela's breaths were heavy. Ragged. A poor attempt to keep what little self-control she had left inside of her. She knelt there, lips hovering over the heavy latex that covered Amélie so delectably, her own slow pants fogging the shiny material of her upper thigh. She couldn't bring herself to face directly into the womans crotch, not yet. 

Amélie shifted. Her weight moved, she straightened her back, and yet her finger held only at the trigger guard. The spikes along her uniforms calf buried into Angela's delicate side as she pulled the leg in tighter. They dug sharply into her skin, threatening to puncture the tender flesh of one whose roll was to serve those hardened from battle. 

The doctor hissed out a swear, straightening all the same as she looked up to meet Amélie's gaze. Hoping to find any form of approval, or acknowledgement. Her arm's ran lavishly along the inside of her thighs, wrapping up and around to help steady Amélie. 

Long seconds droned out. The silence of the range so deep that the a keen buzz forced its way into their ears. Amélie's chest rose and fell once, twice, then a third time before she held the breath. Angela felt her whole body tense and the snipers own fall only into that of practiced routine.

Ringing filled her ears, the guns rapport bucking into Amélie's shoulders, the sharp flash as it fired and slow roiling smoke that snaked out of it's barrel quick to follow. Amélie's upper body flowed with the recoil, tensing into the shot. The spikes along her calf dug deeper into Angela's side, the woman barking out her pain. But it wasn't heard. Amélie's was silent, peering down the scope to the ends of the range, studying her shot. The scent of gunpowder began to sweep through the air once more. It was faint, but noticable. It felt rancid on the tongue and almost sticky on skin in the air around it. She muttered something under her breath. Displeasure, most likely, though anything could be assumed from the monotony so common of Amélie's concentration. She ground her leg into the side of Angela, sharp points breaking the skin gently as she spat her disappointment out. No words were exchanged beyond the whimpers of the stinging pain, but an understanding was made. Angela unsure if blood whelled at the punctures or not. 

She shifted closer, legs burning from where she knelt, face buried between the others legs, heaving each shakey breath as Amélie steadied herself against her. 

"Good girl." she coo'd silently, almost absently as her attention focused further down the range. "Now don't move." the words came carrying a subtle threat. Angela said nothing; did nothing. Nothing beyond that of of was already being asked of her. 

Pride roiled through her at those two simple words, and the medic buried her face into Amélie's crotch, eyes squeezed shut, legs sore, knees red, arms shaking as she all but held the other woman up. The routine ran through again. And another shot echoed into the firing range. 

This repeated for each bullet in the magazine, each time she shot, each time she forced Angela closer. It stopped being effective the fourth time, and so Amélie settled for simply gouging the spikes on her calf a little deeper. Around the 8th bullet, the woman all but grinded Angela's mouth into her crotch, using her like a toy. Thin lines of blood had trickled partly down her side and congeled, the holes still filled with those needles puffy and red, a ring of blood around their edge. Angela had a few dried tears on her cheek, the handful that forced their way out during this process. 

Lowering her hand from Angela's head, Amélie took a moment to catch her breath, chest heaving, panting, trying to collect herself for the two final shots. There was a long inhale, then two sharp quick ones as the sniper steadied herself. At this point neither of them paid attention to the rapport of her shots.

9.

The needles dug in a little deeper. Angela whined and groaned, tears welling at her eyes, whimpering and all but begging for it to stop. Amélie was grateful for the latex not leaving obnoxious stains; save the glistening mark on her boot between Angela's legs. A surge of power ran through her as she heard the woman below her, intoxicating, addicting, she rolled her neck, and with a long drawn out moment she took the final shot of her magazine. 

The silence after it was tense. As the echoes died down, Amélie stood there, eyes closed as she listened to the woman below her. She held her rifle up, the gunsmoke thick around it's barrel, the heat radiating off of it as she held it close to her face, high on the adrenaline of the moment. She breathed in the gunsmoke and exhaled with a satisfied groan before setting the weapon down on the table before her. A hand found Angela's shoulder, and slowly, the spikes impaled into her sides were removed as Amélie moved her leg. She was gentle. Careful. 

Angela cried out in pain and held on tightly to the womans other leg, the wounds openning up and more blood forming at the holes and dribbling down her side. The marks on Amélie's legs looked as if they stuck in about nearly 2 1/2 centimeters. She was trembling, quaking, shivering. 

Without a single word, Amélie dropped to a knee and grabbed Angela by the cheeks, throwing herself in a longing, deep kiss as she ran one of the hands through her hair, combing it out of her face.

"Good girl. I'm proud of you." she whispered, searching for any signs of distress in the other woman. She hadn't spoken their safeword, but Amélie still needed to be certain. Eyes half lidded, Angela whimpered out only a simple 'please'. This brief show of concern was gone at that one word, and once again the steely emotions of the sniper were back. She helped Angela to her feet, only to push her back down onto the table of the firing range, shoving her gun out of the way not caring as it clattered to the floor. 

Amélie forced her way between the other womans legs, hand groping at the back of her head as she kissed her, passionately, hungrily, needily, a lustful wave of the woman no longer caring about their sadistic foreplay, the 'scenario' she had crafted. She wanted Angela. 

Hands ran all across her body, greedy, needy, groping and squeezing everything she could find. Marks were already beginning to form along the doctor's collarbone and shoulder, and Angela squirmed under the ravenous attention, legs wrapping around Amélie's waist, begging her to stay, begging for her release. Finally a hand dived between the womans legs and fingers stroked along Angela's lips, rough and desperate. Her inner thighs and pussy glistened in the harsh light and thick beads of her arousal were smeared by the snipers fingers. Angela threw her head back, rolled it, exposing herself, giving herself and her entirety to the moment and the woman before her. 

Explicatives started out as murmurs, embarressed whimpers between her breathy moans, but they grew to full blown shouts as Amélie's fingers pumped and curled inside of her. Angela's hips bucked and jerked, sometimes in a way to beg for more, sometimes outside of her own accord. 

She begged, and whined, "Fuck! Fuck me! Don't stop, don't stop!" the words echoed in the firing range, along with other lewder sounds. Amélie's lips and teeth marked her terrirtory along the womans shoulders, her neck, her chest, her nipples, her everything she could bite, rutting against the edge of the table, thrusting with her whole body practically every time her fingers slid to their knuckles inside of Angela.

Her whole body shook and trembled and she was so close, so, so close, begging, craving, oh god so desperate as she sat on the edge. Amélie's forearm burned from the effort but it made her hornier when she felt Angela's orgasm teetering on the brink, and within moments it spilled over, a single high pitched moan sounding in the firing chamber, breathy pants and moans from both sides as Angela came, Amélie still going but slowing gradually as she squeezed every last bit of pleasure out of her lovers orgasm. 

A few minutes passed as they both came down from their high; Angela's mind still foggy and wanting more, and Amélie prepping for both of them to continue elsewhere. 

"Here." she offered, holding out a glass of champagne before leaving the room to grab the womans clothing outside the door. Amélie helped keep the doctor steady as she got into her clothes, the two of them sitting, leaning against the wall as they waited to recover. 

Angela leaned over to kiss the other, the taste of champagne still on her lips, and a gentle love that no one else on the planet could have. She smiled, weary but satisfied. But still playful nonetheless. 

"You owe me a new sweater Miss Lacroix." 

"I owe you much more than a sweater, Angela." 

"Then it's settled. My room?"

"The night is young, and we still have a bottle left."


End file.
